


Worth It

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Domestics and Fluff, Established Relationship, Feverish Sam and caretaker Gene, Fluffity fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's feeling poorly.  Gene's feeling magnanimous.  Really though, he's just doing it because Sam would do the same for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> little_cello said something about feverish Sam, and I'm always happy to deliver.
> 
> Also, any grammatical slip-ups of Sam's are probably because he's feeling poorly. XD

Gene unlocks the door, pushes it open, walks on into Sam's flat, the smell of sweat punching him in the nose, the scent of dried flowers wafting over what's left of his senses. Kicking the door shut with one foot, he heads over to the worktop, setting down the lone bag he'd brought along with him.

Sam is, as he'd expected, still a wrapped up bundle of covers, though he's taken up residence on the recliner instead of his sorry excuse for a bed.

Gene takes the juice out, the grapes, the whisky he'd brought for himself, plus the new bottle of paracetamol, settling them all off to the side. Sam groans, Gene's ears perking up. 'Oi, you still alive?' He looks backwards, the bundle of covers shifting about, but Sam must not feel like revealing himself quite yet.

Another weak groan, followed by a somewhat muffled, 'No.'

Gene huffs on a small laugh, twists the bottle open. 'Don't believe you.'

'You never do,' Sam rasps, somewhat easier to hear. 'I'm dead.'

'Are not.' Gene sets two paracetamol to the side, gets a cup out, fills it with orange juice.

'Are too.'

'Are not! And you're a bloody fussy girl on top of that.' He twists the cap off on the whisky, swallows a nice-sized mouthful of it down. He'll need that and more, something strong to help him face Sam in this bloody sorry mood of his.

Sam groans, must shift about, Gene hears the chair creaking. 'Just dead, not a girl.'

'Well, you're certainly proving your manliness today.' He snatches up the pills, the glass, though only after shoving the whisky away, leaving the top off. He'll be needing more of it, and soon, no bloody doubt about that.

Crossing over to that side of the room, Gene nudges the duvet near where Sam's shoulder should be. 'Got you a drink.'

A hand reveals itself, pale, shaking. 'Thanks.' Sam's head is revealed as well, just as pale as his hand, though there's a flush of colour on his cheeks. He takes the pills as well, swallows them down, doesn't hand the glass back til it's empty.

'Good boy.'

Sam mutters something indistinct, not that it matters what, Gene pressing the back of his hand to that sweaty brow. 'Still feverish.'

'Mhmm.'

Gene sets the glass aside, strokes his fingers through Sam's fringe, Sam tilting his head back, keeping that sad, sorry gaze of his locked onto Gene's. 'Why aren't you in bed?'

'Bad dreams.' He sniffles, tilts his head a bit more, nuzzles his cheek against Gene's hand. His eyes are half-closed, and if he didn't look so awful, well, he'd nearly look content.

Well, Gene doesn't much mind the little touches, and he rubs his hand across Sam's clammy cheek. 'And the chair's immune to bad dreams, is that so?'

'S'what I'm hoping.' Sam blinks, tilts his head back as Gene pulls the covers up about him with one hand.

'You're a nutter.' He brushes his hands back through Sam's hair, Sam pressing into his touch.

A grin twitches at the corner of his lip, takes hold of his mouth. 'Your favourite one.'

'Yep. What's that say about me?'

A shrug. 'Good taste.' He shivers, groans. 'Don't feel well.'

'I know that – now, if you'd just go to the...'

'Don't even say it,' Sam snaps, a hot flash of anger burning right through his sorry state.

'Right.' Gene shakes his head. 'Let me get you a cold flannel.'

Sam doesn't call him back, anything like that, and how sodding ridiculous are the pipes in this building, it takes three minutes for the tap to run cold. By the time Gene's wrung it out and carted it back over to where Sam's curled up in his chair, his feverish partner has once more burrowed beneath the covers.

'Bloody hell, you're a handful when you're feeling poorly.'

Sam mumbles, tugs at the covers to keep himself hidden. 'Don't worry, no need to bother with me, Guv.' Gene sighs, grabs the edge of the duvet, tugs it back.

Sam blinks, scowls, wraps his arms about himself, perhaps because he needs a hug, perhaps because he looks at it like some sort of shield. He looks like he must feel like utter shite, pale all over, sweat damp hair, some of that sweat soaking into his vest as well, his sock-covered feet sticking out from the ends of his pyjama bottoms.

'Trying to sweat it out?'

'Go away,' Sam mutters, ducks his head away.

'Yep, no such luck.' He drops the covers on the floor, and Sam grumbles, still grabbing at his arms.

'Why not?'

'Cause you'd do the bloody same for me.'

Still scowling, Sam grumbles once more, but he does sit up, even unfolds his arms. Gene sits himself down on the arm of the chair, Sam leaning back against him. One hand rubbing Sam's shoulder, the other stroking across his brow, dragging the damp cloth back and forth.

'Why are you being so nice?'

Gene sighs, rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. 'Because I'm normally a bastard.'

Sam huffs a laugh out, scoots closer, but the angle of his cuddling grows a bit more awkward as he does, and Gene's having trouble keeping the cloth at his brow. 'Kind of getting in my way here, Gladys.'

'Don't care.' Now he's snuggled up close, so bloody close, wrapping himself around one arm. 'You love me.'

He'd closed his eyes at some point in the midst of his cuddling, but they're open now, dark and wide and frank – not asking a question, not his Sam, just stating a simple fact. 'Yeah, apparently so.'

He smiles, rather radiantly, thoroughly exhausted, still bloody feverish. 'Good. Cause I love you too.'

'Hell, you really are sick, aren't you? Come on, shift your arse into gear and stand up.'

Sam blinks up at him, but unwraps himself, stands – with a bit of help from Gene, of course – Gene dropping down into the chair behind him. Another blink, Gene looping one arm about him and tugging him down onto his lap.

'How's this?'

Sam's already snuggling close, eyes closed once more. 'You're gonna get sick.'

'Don't care. Could do with a bit of a holiday.'

Now Sam's free to snuggle up to him all he'd like, and he's doing his best to do just that. He's overly warm, smells like sweat, a bit of soap, plus the flowers that Annie had brought by earlier in the week. Gene can hardly believe he's letting the clingy little bastard get away with this stunt, but Sam was telling the truth – and love does make you do the strangest things.

'You owe me.' He brushes a kiss at Sam's temple, strokes his fingers at the back of his neck.

'Yep.'

'Big time.'

'Mhmmmm.'

'But you're worth it.'

'Hmm, thanks. So're you.' Sam cracks his eyes open, ducks his head down, between shoulder and cheek now, planting a number of hot little kisses up along Gene's jaw. He winds another arm about Sam, holds onto him tighter, really should make him get some sleep, really can't help but want to keep him close.

'Don't get me started now, Sammy-boy.'

A weary little chuckle, one last kiss. 'Gonna fall asleep on you at this rate.'

'Don't mind it.'

Sam gives a little huff, nuzzles in closer. 'G'night then, Guv.'

Sam's breathing evens out, his weight leaden above him, but Gene keeps hold of him, feels his own eyes drooping. Right well, this is certainly unexpected, but now seems like a good enough time for a kip. Gene lets his eyes slip shut, following his partner off to sleep.


End file.
